


Risky Business

by eirabach



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Fluff, I Don't Normally Go Here, Obnoxious Family Members, Penny is Gonna Cut a Bitch, but here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: It's a risky business this, and not only for him.
Relationships: Penelope Creighton-Ward/Gordon Tracy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 27





	Risky Business

He asks her after a rescue, adrenaline and relief making him brave -- far braver than he'd had to be to dive into a bottomless chasm, anyway. Though part of him wonders if it isn't pretty much the same thing.

It's not like he's going to  _ casually _ date Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, is it?

It feels a bit all or nothing, this. A risky business. And yeah sure, so she’s kissed him. Twice, actually. Three times. He hasn’t  _ actually _ lost count of the number of times she’s thrown her arms around his neck, obviously. It’s just he’s replayed them all so many times, so very many times, that maybe they’re kinda blurring into one long, beautiful moment and really -- really he’d like the chance to lose count, that’s all.

First he has to actually get the words out. It’s easier said than done. 

"So, what do you think? Would you -- would you like that? With me?"

She smiles across the holocomm, wide and genuine and yeah, all or nothing. All or nothing and he's betting it all on the curl of her lips.

"Dinner? Yes. Yes I rather think I would."

\---

“You’re not serious?”

Scott prowls around him, dark brows pulled low over narrow eyes. Sweat prickles at the back of Gordon’s neck, some evolutionary response finely honed by twenty five years of little brotherhood. 

“Uh, yes?” he manages, any other words choked out by the way Scott steps forward and pulls on his collar.

“It’s orange.” 

“I like orange.”

From the couch Virgil makes a strange, whining sound. “It’s dayglo, Gords.”

“So I’m gonna be easy to spot, yeah?”

Above them John hovers, arms folded, judgement clear. “Are you taking her to Coachella?”

“Maybe.” He bats at Scott’s hands. “Will you --  _ geroff _ , Scott!”

“It’s no good,” Scott sighs, radiating disappointment, “he’s a hopeless case. Virgil?”

“I have to concur.” Gordon scowls at his  _ supposed  _ wingman, but Virgil just shakes his head, “No hope at all.”

“Maybe Lady Penelope’s like a dog though?” Alan pipes up. “Like, what if she can only see super _ bright  _ things? She likes pink, right? Maybe that’s why!”

“Please,” John again, a floating Greek chorus to Gordon’s ever mounting misery, “don’t compare Lady P to a dog. You’ll give him ideas. And anyway the canine eye only has --”

“ _ Enough _ already! Ugh! Fine!” In one swift movement he whips the offending shirt -- his  _ best  _ shirt, as it happens -- over his head and tosses it to the floor. It lies there, a crumpled, accusatory heap, while Gordon crosses his arms over his bare chest and  _ glares _ . 

“You win,” he snarls. “I’ll go like this, yeah?”

Scott shrugs. “Could work.”

“Not very subtle though,” Virgil says.

“Just about right then,” mutters John.

“Won’t you be cold?”

Gordon grits his teeth and blows out, hard. “I hate you all.”

“No you don’t,” Scott says mildly. “You love us.  _ And _ \--” He steps forward, squeezes Gordon’s bare shoulder with a grin. Against his will, Gordon half leans into it. There’s an unsteadiness to him, deep down and working its way out, and as much as he wants to  _ slap _ his brothers sometimes -- sometimes he really doesn’t. “You can even borrow my shirt.”

\---

Parker is practically vibrating as he hands over the keys to FAB 0. Well,  _ sort  _ of hands. Really Gordon has to practically unfurl the man’s death grip then snatch them away. Parker’s eye twitches, and it’s probably just as well that Gordon isn’t the supernaturally concerned type because if there was ever a man willing a curse on another he’s pretty sure he’d be screwed.

“You look h’after her,” Parker spits, and Gordon would toss him a salute, he would, but he thinks he might get punched. And Scott will kill him if he gets blood on his borrowed shirt.

“I got it,” he says, then, shooting for reassurance, “you taught me to drive, remember?”

Despite the deathglare, Parker visibly pales. “I remember.” Then, leaning in just a touch too far to be comfortable, “I weren’t  _ talkin’ _ about the car.”

Penelope, already ensconced in the front passenger seat, leans out of the open window with a sigh. “Gentlemen, if you’re  _ quite _ finished?”

Parker snaps back to attention, and Gordon fiddles with his shirtsleeves, abashed.

“Of course, your Ladyship.”

“Sorry, Pen.” 

He slips into the driver’s seat and tries very hard to ignore the flames he’s sure Parker is burning into his back. After a moment of confusion --why are there  _ so many _ keys on this thing? -- FAB 0 judders into life and makes somewhat lurching progress down the manor’s driveway. He brakes at the end, looking both ways as Parker had instructed, then almost jumps out of his skin as Penelope’s hand comes to rest on his thigh.

“Gordon?” He doesn’t look at her. There’s a dark mark in the distance. Could be another car. Could be Thunderbird One. Could be his heart which appears to have leapt straight out of his chest and made a run for it. “Are you quite all right?”

“Yeah, yeah -- fine, uh -- are we clear left?”

He hears the way she exhales, and his heart returns only to sink into his very shiny shoes. 

“Clear left.”

God, he hopes the rest of the night is smoother than his clutch control.

\---

The restaurant is --  _ nice _ . It’s small, perhaps ten tables all topped with stems of roses and unlit candles, and cosily intimate even without the dimmed lighting that makes every plate a mystery. Nor is it a place that’s registered on her radar before, tucked as it is into a narrow backstreet of a nowhere sort of town. There are no paparazzi at the windows, here, FAB 0’s arrival greeted only by the twitching of blinds and the hushed exclamations of a gang of teenage boys who’d been lingering on the corner. 

There's something a little furtive about it, about the way the door is locked behind them, the way she feels more than hears Gordon's intake of breath as she removes her furs. It gives her a little thrill, the way she can still feel the imprint of his hand on her lower back as he pulls her chair out, and she smoothes out her skirt as she sits, once, twice, three times. Wills herself steady.

The kitchen door is slightly askew, the single waitress polishing the same wine glass over and over, and it occurs to her that everybody seems to be waiting for something. Someone. Across the table Gordon concentrates on the candle with enough force to set it alight. Oh.

“This is rather lovely,” she says, loud enough for the waitress to relax her grip on the wine glass slightly, “however did you find it?”

“Oh!” Gordon looks up, as though he’s surprised to find her sat there. “Bit of a -- work thing. You know. Gas leaks and -- yeah. You know.”

Penelope doesn’t know, actually, but she hums in agreement anyway and picks up the leatherbound menu.

“It’s all right though, right? You like it?”

He’s fiddling with his shirt cuffs again. They’re perhaps half an inch too long and a little too loose, so that the cufflinks he wears clink against the tabletop. It’s a nervous, silvery sort of sound that has Penelope dropping the menu and reaching out to cover both his hands with her own. 

“Of course I like it.” She smiles. Squeezes. “Don’t you?”

He half snorts, an undignified little thing, but then he’s turning his palms up, fingers coming to rest perfectly in the space between her own. 

“You’re here aren’t you? What’s not to love.”

She smiles, lets the tip of her tongue peek from between her teeth, “Well,  _ obviously _ .”

She expects to feel satisfaction as the high colour of his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears, down his throat, she doesn’t expect the thrill as his eyes darken, as he runs his thumb across the pulsepoint at her wrist.

“Hungry?”

Well then. Two can play at that game.

“Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

\---

Gordon notices her inbetween mouthfuls of honeyed aubergine, blurred by the semi-frosted window glass, hopping from foot to foot before ducking away only to reappear half a moment later at another window. He tries to ignore her, concentrating instead on Penelope’s latest escapades with the World Council and offering, as best he can, ever more involved acts of vengeance she could turn to her advantage against the besuited middle aged idiots that fill most of the council seats. 

“There’s somebody behind me,” she says before taking a sip of her wine. “Isn’t there.”

The figure at the window shifts again. Gordon blinks.

“N-no?”

“Your eyes have been darting about as though they’re fit to leave your head for the last ten minutes, darling. Either there’s something behind me that has you concerned, or you are undergoing some form of medical emergency.”

Gordon groans. “My sister is insane. You know that, right?”

“Your sis- ?” Penelope twists round in her chair. The shadowy figure freezes on the spot, a rabbit caught in piercing blue headlights. “ _ Tanusha _ ,” she hisses, then, polite as can be, “Oh, pardon me?” She beckons to the waitress who scuttles over immediately. “There’s a young lady outside, and the weather is rather inclement. Would you mind inviting her in?”

The waitress looks at Gordon. Gordon shrugs the shrug of the damned. “Might as well. She’ll end up in the ceiling otherwise.”

Clearly perturbed by this oddest of statements, the waitress unlocks the door. Kayo sashays in as though she’s  _ actually  _ been invited.

Penelope’s smile turns wolfish. Gordon tops up his glass and wishes fervently that it contained something stronger than soda water.

Kayo, who is clearly a woman with no sense of self preservation whatsoever, drags a chair over from another table and, snagging an olive from Penelope’s plate, grins at the waitress. “Aren’t they cute? I think they’re super cute.”

The waitress makes a noise that Gordon translates as  _ you’ve just lost me my tip _ , and returns to the relative safety of the bar at the end of the room.

“Who put you up to this? Was it Scott? Alan, I bet it was Alan. I’m going to leave  _ anchovies _ in his  _ boosters _ .”

“Try again.”

“Virgil?!”

“Nuh huh.” She reaches for another olive. Penelope snatches the plate away.

“John wouldn’t  _ dare _ ," she announces, and Kayo bows her head slightly in agreement.

"Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I let you see me didn't I?" She offers Gordon a sly sort of smirk. "Though your observation skills are  _ appalling,  _ Tracy."

"Maybe I had better things to be looking at."

Penelope  _ giggles _ , and it's a dangerous sound, a dangerous sound that travels through every one of his nerves to settle at the base of his spine.

"You've been behind us since the last junction on the motorway, Thunderbird  _ Shadow _ ." This time when she smiles Penelope shows her teeth, and Gordon wonders exactly how much of a blood alcohol level it will take to get him grounded. "If you plan to spy on us at least do me the honour of doing so  _ properly _ ."

Kayo's expression sours.

"I wanted you to see me."

Gordon sighs. “Knew we shouldn’t have let you take a rotation on Five, they all lose it up there.”

"No -- I," Kayo pauses, almost flustered. "Would you believe I just wanted to make sure you things were ok? With you two?"

Gordon looks at Penelope. Penelope looks at Gordon. Kayo flicks at an olive stone with her nail.

"I meant it. You guys are  _ super  _ cute. I didn't want anyone messing it up."

"She's cracked." Gordon says, bemused. "Completely Space Crazy."

"Nonsense, darling." Penelope tuts. "We're adorable."

"Well I mean obviously  _ I  _ know that," he scoffs, "but  _ Kayo _ ?"

"Hey! I'm right here."

"Yes," says Penelope drolly, "so we can see." 

"Look, so I ship it, ok? You should be glad! Virgil only gave you a week max!"

"What are you shipp -- hey! A week?!"

Penelope shrugs apologetically in his direction. "I believe that's seven times longer than Parker would prefer."

"Um." The waitress hovers behind Kayo, tab in hand. "Will you be uh, eating too? Or would you like the bill?"

Gordon's suddenly, painfully aware of the silence from the kitchen, the air thick with held breath. Spectacle. The actual last thing he wanted, and here it is compliments of his own socially inept family.

"The bill, please."

Well. That’s that, then.

\--

They make a rather awkward trifecta, gathered around the trunk of a bright pink Rolls and all trying quite hard not to look at the gawking, and now much larger, group of young men from earlier.

“All right,” Penelope says, “you’ve had your fun, how much did he pay you?”

Kayo attempts a look of innocence, but it’s the same one Gordon himself had taught Alan and it never, ever works. Especially not on people who’ve met them. Any of them. And  _ especially _ especially not on Penny. She proves his point with a single arched eyebrow.

“He promised to take me out safe cracking,” Kayo mumbles, then, insistent, “we weren’t going to  _ take _ anything.”

Penelope scoffs. “Have you met Parker?”

“Hang on.” Gordon steps in, irritation and not a small amount of hurt rising to the surface. “Parker sent you to spy on our -- on us. And you  _ did _ it?”

“I’ve been really bored since we got rid of the Hood,” Kayo wheedles. “It’s nothing  _ personal _ .”

It is personal; it’s probably the most personal thing Gordon can think of, and he’s about to tell her so, loudly, if necessary, when the trunk of FAB 0 pops open with a click of Penelope’s fingers.

“If you wanted to go lockpicking, Kayo, you only had to ask.”

A twist and a shove and a --  _ slam _ , and Kayo lies like an upturned turtle in the mink lined trunk of the Rolls.

Against his better judgement Gordon lets out a low whistle of admiration. “Whoa -- sticky hand technique?”

Penelope hums, delighted. “The very same.” Kayo stares up at them, shock written in every sprawled limb. “Now, do have fun, won’t you?” Another click, and the trunk lid drops, muting Kayo’s protests behind a sheild of steel. 

One of the onlookers gasps, and Penelope throws a becoming smile over her shoulder at them. “Keep an eye out, gentlemen, won’t you?”

“She’s going to kill me,” Gordon manages as an unpleasantly metallic clanging begins to emanate from the car. “She can’t kill you but she is  _ absolutely  _ going to kill me, Pen. She’s going to  _ murder  _ me.”

“She chose her side,” Penelope says, “and besides, there are air holes.”

“Why do you have air holes in your trunk?”

“Why do you ask such obvious questions?” She spins on her heel to face him, rubbing her hands over his biceps and briefly, very briefly, Gordon forgets that he’s going to die very, very soon. “Take me dancing?”

FAB 0 rocks, there’s the clatter of bicycles swiftly mounted from the other end of the street, and well, if he’s going to die anyway --

Penelope skips lightly from foot to foot, chilly even in her furs, and if he’s going to die anyway;

“Yeah, okay. Yeah.”

\---

  
  


(She means to only leave Kayo for twenty minutes to stew. She truly does. She's contrite, later, when John tells her off and Parker is left to hammer dents from the antique steel. She even apologises to Kayo, despite the destruction wrought upon both car and date.

But the floors were sticky and the drinks were cheap, and she'd laughed as he'd swung her around and around, laughed until she could catch his mouth on the upswing. 

And kissed him until she lost count.)


End file.
